Kurtyanadovl
by lizzard713
Summary: Kurtya, an orphan, knew very little of his past - save for a gold chain with an ornament that read "Together in Paris." Blanieri, a con-man, knew nothing of his future - save finding the perfect boy and the gold box from the palace. Anastasia!Klaine.
1. Prologue

**I've finally written a second story. AND I did it in the middle of all of my college classes. Yay me!**

**So, this is Anastasia - Klaine style. I remember seeing the prompt once on tumblr and getting the idea stuck in my head. Now it's been nearly a month since I started with this monstrosity, and I finally have a chapter done. I have no idea what - or if - my regular update schedule is going to be. I'll write whenever I get the free time to watch the film and take obsessive notes. I'm not going to include every song from the film, just because songs in writing don't always work with moving the plot along. But I'll try to fit them in whenever possible, alright? I like the songs in this movie too.**

**None of these characters are mine, and I'm not making any profit off of them. If I were, I'd be helping to pay my own way through college. And yes, I know that the film Anastasia is riddled with historical inaccuracies, ones which this story continues to operate on. I'm working out of the film-verse here, not real life, okay? Great.**

**Oh, and a note for understanding this chapter: **regular text **indicates the present, while**_ italics text_ **indicates the past (except in instances of emphasis). Вы понимаете? Great.**

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><p>Even through the frosted glass of the aging building, the skyline of the 'City of Lights' looked beautiful. When the chilly glass began to fog up from her breath, the elderly woman at the window moved away, turning her gaze from Paris towards the images resting on her desk – images which she carried with her like her own shadow. Absentmindedly, she began to tell their story, almost to herself, that she might remember it. "There was a time," she paused, because that time felt several lifetimes apart from where she now stood, "not very long ago," – and truly, it had been only 10 years – "when we lived in an enchanted world of elegant palaces and grand parties." She spoke reverently, and to the images, looking in particular at an etching done of a portrait of a large family. "The year was nineteen hundred and sixteen, and my son, Boris, was the tsar of Imperial Russia."<p>

She remembered a great deal of her life as the Dowager Empress Yulia, mother of Tsar Boris IV of the Umelnov dynasty. She could remember speaking French at court, consuming foreign liquors and delicious meats, wearing robes of fine Chinese silk, speaking with dignitaries from various countries. She could recall the tennis matches, the laughing grandchildren, the palace on the Black Sea where the family spent the summer. But no event was fixed in her memory among those gaudy images, except that of one fateful night at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg in 1916. "We were celebrating the 300th anniversary of our family's rule," she said softly, though it was a celebration that belonged three years earlier – the Umelnov family had reigned over Imperial Russia since 1613. She idly wondered if the celebration had occurred then, as it should have, if it had happened before the Great War, if matters might have been different.

She closed her eyes, and imagined herself back at the grand ball. _The Winter Palace was beautiful that night, snow-laden as spotlights struck the clouded sky and nobility and dignitaries alike stepped from fancy cars and made their entrances into the palace. The Dowager Empress, being herself blood royalty, received many bows and curtsies as she entered, and returned them as was polite. She made her way to the head of the grand ballroom, listening to the joyful music of the dance that was taking place en masse across the floor. The interior of the ballroom was absolutely exquisite, decked with gold ornamentation and red curtains and carpeting, portraits of the Umelnov family dating back centuries, and of course the newest in electrical lighting._

_She waved to a few of the attendees, before letting her gaze wander to her family. Her son was dancing with his eldest daughter, Katrina, whose pretty blonde hair and pale skin shone brightly against the lighting. Tatiana, her hair a dark contrast to her sister's, was dancing with Mikhail, a young man of noble blood who had been courting her for several months now. Fyodor, her eldest grandson, moved (albeit awkwardly, the young man had never really taken to heart his lessons in dance) about the room with Rochelle, the daughter of the French diplomat. Alexei, the middle son, and certainly the most mischievous, continued to be bedridden, the condition of his legs worsening. (The doctors feared that the young man had contracted polio.) Shaking her head from these thoughts, she looked upon her daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, and the boy who danced with her._

It was at this moment that she turned her attention toward the smaller image, a photo of a young boy in elaborate and heavily embroidered robes, smiling with his eyes even as his lips were pressed into a thin line. "That night, no star burned brighter than that of our sweet Kurtyanadovl, my youngest grandchild," she spoke to the photo, remembering how Elizabeth had picked Kurtya (her pet name for her grandson) up off his feet and swung him around in the air. _"Grandmamma!" he called from his elevated position in his mother's arms, waving enthusiastically at her. Kurtya squirmed as he struggled to get down, and as soon as his feet touched the ground, he began racing (in a most un-gentlemanly manner) toward his grandmother, who was seated at a throne. She laughed as he bounded up to her, nearly tripping on the hems of his large robes. He dug into his pocket, before thrusting a folded piece of paper into her hands. It looked to be an image of herself, seated on a throne, though judged objectively it would never be considered a work of art. _This, too, was framed, and she looked to it briefly before turning back at the photograph.

"He had…" she broke off, tears welling in her eyes. "He _begged_ me not to return to Paris. So I had a…a very special gift made for him, to make the separation easier, for both of us." _She opened her velvet purse, and, reaching into it, produced a small, golden, intricately decorated egg-shaped box. She held the box in her palm, offering it to Kurtya. "For me?" he breathed in surprise. "Is it a jewellery box?" She smiled and shook her head 'no', before reaching into the purse again, this time producing a thin gold chain. She grasped the small, circular ornament that hung from the small necklace, fitting it into an indent on the front of the box and twisting it three times. As she did, the top of the box opened itself, revealing an intricate mechanized interior._

_An airy tune began to play from within the tiny machinery, as two figures rose out of the body of the box and began to spin. On closer examination, the figures were Tsar Boris and Tsaritsa Elizabeth, dancing together. As the music carried on, Kurtya gasped. "It plays our lullaby!" he said excitedly, taking the box from his grandmother's outstretched palm. Yulia smiled. "You can play it at night, before you go to sleep, and pretend that it's me singing." She took Kurtya's other hand, the one that wasn't clasping the music box, and began to sway it in time with the song. "On the wind, 'cross the sea," she sang, "hear this song and remember." She lifted her arm, and Kurtya spun under it. He, too, began to sing, his high soprano a beautiful contrast to her alto. "Soon you'll be home with me, once upon a December." Kurtya gave a little bow as the music ended and the box shut itself._

_She handed him the necklace, pointing to the key ornament that hung from it. "Read what it says!" she whispered with delight. He lifted the ornament to eye level, turning it over and holding it with both hands in order to read the inscription on the back. "__вместе__в__Париже__(T__ogether__in Paris__)__," he read slowly, before his eyes widened in realization. "Really?" he said, so loudly that a few nearby servants turned their heads. "Oh Grandmamma!" he exclaimed as he threw himself into his grandmother's arms._

Yulia took a deep breath, as she recalled what had followed that happy exchange. "But we would never be together in Paris, for a dark shadow had descended upon the house of the Umelnovs." _Suddenly, the electrical lighting in the palace flickered and went out, leaving only scattered candlelight and glow from the outside lanterns to permeate the now-dim ballroom. An eerie hush fell upon the once-merry crowd as the music stopped abruptly and people struggled to see. Then, there was a scream from near the back of the room. The crowd parted quickly away from the source, and continued to split in order to avoid a now-approaching figure. _"His name was…_Karovskii_," she spat with venom. "We thought he was a holy man, but he was a _fraud_ – power-mad, and _dangerous_." _Karovskii pulled his hood back, revealing his bald head, wide grimace, and supernaturally bright eyes. A dark brown bat rested on one of his shoulders. He stalked up to the front of the room, coming face-to-face with the Tsar._

_The Tsar's face grew dark as he confronted Karovskii. "How dare you return to the palace!" he shouted. Karovskii looked shocked. "But – I am your confidante!" he yelled back. It was true, once – the Tsar _had _trusted Karovskii, in the past, when he'd helped to heal Katrina of her night terrors and was friendly to the Tsarina – but Tsar Boris now knew that the 'spiritual healer' had been using the royal family solely for fame; and moreover, that he was willing to spread political secrets to Russia's enemies if it would prove lucrative to himself. The Tsar threw Karovskii's words back in his face. "Confidante? Hah! You are a traitor! Get out!"_

_At this, Karovskii's eyes glowed brighter, and he growled. "You think you can banish the great Karovskii?" he shouted. He grabbed an object that had been dangling from his belt – a thin, glowing white and red glass rod, with brass snakes wrapped around it and a similar brass skull at the top – and flung it toward the Tsar's face. "By the unholy powers vested in me, I banish you! With a curse!" At this, the evil reliquary seemed to glow brighter, as the collective crowd – and especially the royal family – gasped, shocked._

_Karovskii turned, his words still addressing the Tsar but his message boring into the hearts of all the attendees. "Mark my words," he growled menacingly. "You," he pointed a claw-like finger at the Tsar, "and your family, will die, within the fortnight!" The crowd, which had previously been subdued, began to chatter anxiously at Karovskii's threat. "I will not rest until I see the end of the Umelnov line forever!" he nearly screeched. He flung the reliquary into the air, aiming it at the grand crystal chandelier which hung from the ballroom ceiling. A jet of ruby-white light burst from the reliquary and up to the chandelier, causing it to snap from the ceiling and crash to the ballroom floor. The guests, frozen in fear, gazed at the fallen ornament in horror as Karovskii stalked out, before fleeing the palace themselves._

"From that moment, the spark of unhappiness in our country was fanned into a flame that would soon destroy our lives forever," she spoke sadly as she looked back at the etching of her family. _Among the peasantry, riots broke out, goaded on by Karovskii's demons. They stormed storehouses, looking for food to sustain themselves and ammunition to overtake the Tsar. Government and other royal buildings were broken into, looted, and torched. Statues and images of the royal family were destroyed. As Karovskii had predicted, the royal family was being wiped out, and those who had managed to survive the initial riots were trying to flee Russia (despite the Great War), either to the Crimea or into England or France._

Yulia wiped away a tear as she recalled her own flight from Russia. _There were people – servants, royals, and government officials – everywhere, tripping over each other with half-packed possessions as they tried to flee from the rioting masses outside the palace gates. Yulia tugged her youngest – and, if rumours held true, only surviving – grandson along the hall, fighting against the teeming crowds in an effort to escape alive. Suddenly, Kurtya tugged away from her tight grasp on his forearm, running against the flow of the crowd shouting "My music box!" She, unable to leave without Kurtya, began too to fight against the flow of the crowd in order to follow him. "Kurtyanadovl!" she yelled, hoping he'd turn around and hear her. "Come back! Come back!" But it was no use, and he disappeared into the playroom where he kept the box hidden. She skidded into the room only a few seconds after him, shutting the door behind her. "Kurtyanadovl–" she began, but was interrupted by the sound of artillery fire just outside the playroom windows. "Oh!" they both gasped, frightened and frozen by the noise. Suddenly, a hand landed on her shoulder, and she turned to see a young servant boy – perhaps Kurtya's age, possibly a few years older, with unruly black curls and bright hazel eyes – behind her. He pointed toward a panel in the wall as he began to tug once again at her robes. "In here – through the servant's quarters!" he said, leading them towards the wall. He opened the panel, pushing first the Dowager Empress and then Kurtyanadovl into the small space. She called to her grandson – "Hurry, Kurtya!" – who had once again turned away, back towards the playroom, where his music box rested just outside of the open panel. "My music box–" he began to the servant boy, but was shoved insistently backwards before he could retrieve it. "Go! _Go!_" the boy shouted, making sure that both royals were safely within the passage before shutting it behind them._

_Yulia and Kurtya ran through the thick snow, their cloaks pulled tight around them in order to conceal their identities. "Grandma!" he wailed in a panicked voice as he ran, looking behind him to see one of his former homes surrounded by smoke. "Keep up with me, darling!" she shouted urgently to a slightly-lagging Kurtya, whose arm she had a firm grip on as she nearly dragged him along. They kept going, eventually passing under a bridge, before Kurtya was knocked down. Yulia turned to see what happened, only to see – "Karovskii!" The man had leapt from the bridge and tackled Kurtya, though he now barely had a grip on the boy's ankle. "Let me go, let me go!" Kurtya cried as he tried to kick Karovskii off. Karovskii clawed at Kurtya's ankle, eventually getting a grasp on his shin, then his calf. "You'll never escape me child, never!" he laughed. But then, the ice beneath him began to crack dangerously. The sudden shock of the icy water caused him to loosen his grip on Kurtya, and Yulia dragged her grandson away from the now-exposed water as Karovskii flailed, sank, and drowned._

_They managed to make it to the train yard, which was thick with other refugees trying to escape the revolution. They heard the piercing whistle of the train as it chugged away from the yard, and the two weaved quickly through the throng in order to catch up to the caboose. Yulia could see that her grandson was getting tired, was lagging, and yelled to him, "Kurtya! Hurry! HURRY!" She barely caught onto the railing of the car, helped by a few of the passengers already there, but gasped in horror when she realized that Kurtya was not there with her. She turned to see her grandson still running behind the train. "Grandma!" he gasped out, sobbing and a little winded. "Here! Take my hand!" she yelled, flinging herself dangerously against the railing as she stretched her body out as far as possible in order to reach Kurtya. "Hold onto my hand!" "Don't let go!" he yelled breathlessly, his bright blue-silver eyes brimming with tears, his face utterly panic-stricken. _She would never forget how horrified he had looked in those last few moments. _Kurtya continued to run, but it wasn't enough. The departing train was picking up speed, and his legs could no longer keep up. His hand slipped from his grandmother's, and he fell to the bare, cold ground. "Kurtya!" Yulia shouted, trying to rouse him. It was no use: he was unconscious on the train yard ground, and the train was much too far away for him to close the distance. "Kurtyanadovl!" she wailed, sobbing as she was pulled back into the caboose, the train taking her away from both Russia and her favourite grandchild._

"So many lives were destroyed that night," she whispered to the image of her family as she continued to wipe her eyes. "What had always been," she said, meaning the Umelnov dynasty, "was now gone, forever." She looked back to the photograph of Kurtya. "And my Kurtyanadovl, my _beloved_ grandchild…I never saw him again."

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><p><strong>Love it? Hate it? Let me know - that's what the little blue link a couple hundred pixels south of here is for. Even a few words mean so much.<strong> **Thank you.**


	2. Rumour in Leningrad

**So, I'm back after two weeks. I'm sorry that this chapter took me so long, but honestly, I'm still not even sure if I feel totally comfortable with it. The song which is halfway featured in this chapter was difficult to integrate into fic form without making me sound like I was tripping pretty hard while writing this.**

**Chapter 3 should be up this weekend. It was far less difficult for me to have make sense.**

**Requisite disclaimer: **None of these characters are mine, and I'm not making any profit off of them. If I were, I'd be helping to pay my own way through college. And yes, I know that the film Anastasia is riddled with historical inaccuracies, ones which this story continues to operate on. I'm working out of the film-verse here, not real life, okay? Great.****

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><p><strong>Leningrad (St. Petersburg), November 1926<strong>

There was a reason why Napoleon and his army had turned back from the invasion of Russia: its winter bit more sharply than any steel blade.

Why people had first colonized the landmass – or, perhaps more questionably, why they continued to live there when for five months out of the year the entire north became a swath of icy wasteland – was entirely unknown. There were the resources, of course: wood, oil, precious honey, vodka, and the open land – yet the winter called into question the benefit of such efforts.

Much like it called into question the sanity of those who worked in the unheated Soviet factories that were spread throughout Leningrad. To be certain, they complained of the bitter cold, the ice, the damp, the poor living conditions, yet they continued to work at their assigned positions. Why?

Well, without an intricate understanding of the Russian proletariat and the Soviet government and the state of the USSR in the late 1920s, it is difficult to say. It is thus thankful that such an understanding is entirely unimportant to this story.

What _is_ important is the news that had appeared that morning via the underground market (as such news would never be printed in the government-run papers). If rumour held true, then the Dowager Empress Yulia Feodorovna, one of the last living members of the formal royal family, feared that she would never see her (potentially dead) grandson, the Grand Duke Kurtyanadovl Umelnov, before her life ended. Following this fear, she had renewed the search for her young relative.

The peasantry of Leningrad, increasingly deprived of free forms of expression due to the ever-growing restrictions of Stalin's government, thrived on gossip. Nothing this tantalizing had been talked about in months – years. As the whispers and murmurs of this news moved throughout the streets, something like a melodious hum came over the crowds, as the gathering chatter united itself into a far clearer voice. "It's a rumour, a legend, a mystery," the collective voice sang. "Something whispered in an alleyway or through a crack. It's a rumour that's part of our history." The voice broke off as a new tidbit swirled through the crowd, sparking hushed conversations as the peasants looked about nervously, afraid of alerting the police of their potentially pro-royal activities.

What was this new rumour?

One woman whispered it loudly enough to her friend that it was absorbed by the full crowd, the voice once more taking on the message. "They say his royal grandmamma will pay a royal sum, to anyone who brings her young prince back!" To a crowd whose wages came from the government and by the day, the prospect of the reward – 10 million roubles, at that – was nearly miraculous.

As the gossip continued to hum through the crowd like an electrical current, a broad-shouldered, well-built man moved quickly through it, absorbing what new information he could as he made his way toward the fringes of the cluster, headed away from the centre of the city and towards a decommissioned theatre.

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><p>He moved quickly up the steps of the old building, pausing only to look around for a familiar face. "Pyotr!" someone called from behind him. He whirled around to face the speaker, only to come face-to-face with his curly-haired, hazel-eyed partner in crime.<p>

"Blanieri!" he exclaimed, moving closer to the younger man. "Did you hear that news of the search for Kurtyanadovl has broken to the public?"

Blanieri scoffed indignantly. "Of course I've heard – it's all over the streets! I'd been hoping that this news wouldn't break for another week!" He pinched the bridge of his nose tightly.

"Why, are you worried that it'll interfere with the plan?" Pyotr asked, putting his hand on Blanieri's shoulder.

"No, I –" he broke off, shrugging away Pyotr's hand and striding forward to look out at the crowd below. "I'm worried that now, with so many people knowing _exactly_ what we're looking for, we'll be overloaded with willing participants."

"And that's problematic because…"

Blanieri glared at him. "Sometimes I wonder why I work with you."

"Because I'm charming?" Pyotr bantered back, flashing a wide smile.

"No, because you're a damn good thief and you've got connections," Blanieri replied, his head in his hands. "But you're also rude and, at current, interrupting me. Having so many people is a _problem_ because not only does it mean more candidates to sift through, it also means that it will be more likely that news of our little scheme will be leaked to the police – or worse, go all the way to the OGPU."

"Oh, loosen up," Pyotr laughed, punching the younger man in the arm. "I got us this theatre without any fuss, didn't I? Now come on, we've got the market to visit." He turned away and down a corridor to descend another flight of stairs.

Blanieri stared after him, briefly, rubbing at the already-sore spot on his bicep. Sighing, he went to pursue his friend.

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><p>They'd arrived at the seedy black marketplace rather quickly. As per usual, it was crowded and stuffy within the few rooms it occupied, as merchants called out to potential clients just as they might have in an open-air market. With a practiced ease, the two moved from stall to stall, examining countless counterfeits, stolen goods, and illicit merchandise. On another day, Pyotr and Blanieri might have been among the sellers, offering a few of the remaining items they'd managed to nick from the mostly stripped Winter Palace or advertising their services as counterfeiters of government papers. But today, they were among the buyers, looking for something – anything – that might legitimize their scheme to "find" the Grand Duke.<p>

One of the first booths the two stumbled upon was offering portraits and other artwork. In particular, they looked at a small oil pigment painting on wood of a man (who closely resembled Tsar Boris IV) in full military regalia. The seller noticed their interest and hurried over. "A rouble for this painting," he said, picking it up, "it's Umelnov, I swear!" Doubtful that anyone would handle a portrait of the royals with such carelessness, Blanieri and Pyotr quickly moved on.

They next came to a woman who had various articles of clothing draped over her tables and chairs, as well as a few that were pinned up to real mannequins. She gestured to a few wool one-piece outfits that looked worn and of poor quality. "Count Yusipov's pajamas, comrade, by the pair!" she exclaimed, clearly desperate for a sale. Having never heard of "Count Yusipov", the pair quitted the stall rapidly in hopes of greater prospects deeper within the market.

They had been looking for at least half an hour before they found anything useful. A man selling higher-end clothing and textiles pointed them to a beautiful black wrap with mink fur around the edges. "I got this from the palace," he said, lifting the wrap gingerly. "It's lined with real fur trim!" Pyotr and Blanieri tried to conceal their excitement as they looked at the article, sharing the same thought: _it could be worth a _fortune_, if it belonged to _him_. _After some haggling, Pyotr handed the man a 50 kopeck note, and he and Blanieri walked away with the wrap.

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><p>After a few more purchases, Blanieri and Pyotr had walked out of the market, headed back towards their theatre. During the walk, Pyotr recalled a few weeks earlier, when his partner had first suggested this scheme.<p>

_News had just reached Leningrad (via the underground) of the Dowager Empress' renewed search for her lost grandson. Even as the news remained within the world of thieves and forgers, it snowballed from just a fact to something of a fable. Pyotr was on the receiving end of Blanieri's romanticized version of the events. "It's the rumor, the legend, the mystery," he'd said, "it's the Prince Kurtyanadovl who will help us fly! You and I, Pete, will go down in history!" At this point, Pyotr was confused. Then, Blanieri began his pitch. "We'll find a boy to play the part, and teach him what to say. Dress him up, and take him to Paris," he practically crooned, holding onto the last syllable of 'Paris' to make it sound like 'Pa-reeeee'. Pyotr had snorted at his friend's antics, though he was still a bit confused by Blanieri's proposal and doubtful of the plan. "Think of the reward his dear old grandmamma will pay!" he'd said, mentioning the 10 million roubles – and then Pyotr was sold on the idea, even if he was doubtful of its success. But what Blanieri did next convinced him that the plan – however far-fetched – just might work. He pulled a small, gold, egg-shaped box from his pocket, and explained how he had gotten it as a boy, during the royal family's flight from the Winter Palace. He said that it had been given to Kurtyanadovl by his grandmother, and though he was entirely unsure of its purpose, he knew that it must have held strong sentimental significance for them both. With evidence like the box, he'd said, "who else could pull it off but you and me?" _No one_, Pyotr had thought haughtily. They'd then begun to daydream about what they'd do with such a reward. "We'll be rich!" Blanieri had exclaimed, and Pyotr had assented. "We'll be out!" he'd added, and after that both of them had paused, dreaming on the possibility of actually escaping Russia, permanently – perhaps to America, or possibly England, or maybe to southern Europe. Then, imagining news of their success breaking in Leningrad, Blanieri smiled, saying "and then Leningrad will have some more to talk about."_

Continuing to move through the crowded square, the two watched as the gossipy hum that had settled over the people rose to a loud din – as was regularly the case for a rumour in Leningrad. People were already referring to the search for Kurtyanadovl as a "fascinating mystery". Blanieri leaned over to Pyotr and whispered that their plan was "the biggest con in history!" As they moved away from the cacophonous crowd, they continued to think on the boy around whom the rumour was centred. The same thought that occupied their minds was also filling the minds of the people in the square: _the Prince Kurtyanadovl – alive, or dead?_

The answer hung perilously over the gathered crowd, a whispered thought from subconscious depths: _who knows?_

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><p><strong>For anyone to who this might have been unclear: Pyotr is Puck. If you can't figure out Blanieri then I'm seriously starting to doubt that you're a Klainer.<strong>

**And look! There's a little blue link, maybe a thousand pixels south of this text, and if you click on it, it opens up a box where you can give feedback on this story! Awesome, no? But seriously, even a few words means so much, and reviews really do make my day. :)**


	3. Journey to the Past

**So, about that "fic will be up last weekend" thing...I kind of stumbled into the kink meme. Also Thanksgiving happened, but generally gkm was what drew most of my time away from this fic. This week is reading period for me, and then next week is finals, _plus_ I'm now attached to a fill on gkm (my own fault), so it might be a while before I'm able to wrangle out another chapter. To be safe, let's just assume that I'm going to update every two weeks, and any sooner than that is a bonus and/or me willfully ignoring any homework I might have. Okay?  
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**FYI, I was doing some story planning (which would have been intelligent to do before starting this story but w/e), and this fic will end up being a little over 20 chapters. I haven't quite got the timing worked out on the last few chapters, but my planning is solid for at least the first fifteen. :P**

**Disclaimer: I really wish that any of these characters were mine. Especially Kurt(ya) or Blaine. But they aren't. I'm just a poor college student. Please don't sue me *hides***

**Oh, and to the anon reviewer 'Klainers': thank you! That means so much to me! Please come off anon so I can actually throw sunshine and rainbows at you from this side of the internet :) or come bother me over at my tumblr lizzard713[.]tumblr[.]com  
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><p>From within the snow-laden building, a cacophony of cries and laughter echoed out into the winter landscape. The faded sign that read "People's Orphanage" announced that this was a home for children, and very noisy ones at that. Much of the noise seemed to emanate from the front of the building, where a few children stood at the windows or just inside the doorway as they shouted at the two figures moving toward the iron gates.<p>

The first, a slight, middle-aged, fair-haired woman, tried to ignore the noise as she barked out to the figure ahead of her. _"_I got you a job in the fish factory," she said, a little exasperated. "You go straight down this path 'til you get to the fork in the road. Go left–"

"Bye!" the other figure – a young man with fine brunette hair and delicate features – shouted, waving in the general direction of the orphanage and at all of the children in it.

"Are you listening?" she asked sternly.

"Bye everybody!" the young man shouted again, waving at the children within the building. Then, his expression turned serious as he looked back at the woman."I'm listening, Komrade Sylvestrova," he said through gritted teeth.

The woman did not reply, choosing instead to grab onto one of the ends of the boy's long black scarf and begin tugging him closer to the gates. On another occasion, he may have commented on being dragged about like a mutt, but this day was different. "You have been a thorn in my side since you were brought here," the Komrade muttered as she continued to tug him along, "acting like the queen of Shebah–"

"Bye!" he yelled out again, twisting against the slight tug about his neck to take a last look at the structure he'd called 'home' for as long as he could remember, before turning back towards the gate.

"–instead of the complete no-account you are!" she finished, holding the now-unwound scarf from her hand as she wrenched the gate open. "For the last 10 years, I've fed you, I've clothed you, I've–"

"–kept a roof over my head," he muttered, having heard this tirade many times before and knowing what Komrade would say nearly word for word.

She whipped around to face him, a hard glint in her eyes. "How is it that you don't have a CLUE as to who you were before you came to us," she asked incredulously, "but you can remember all that?"

One of his hands moved instinctively to grasp the skinny chain that hung about his neck as he began to defend himself. "But I do have a clue to– "

"Gah! I know," she snarled, snatching the chain from his hands and grasping the small, circular ornament that hung from it. On one side of the ornament, six teardrop-shaped aquamarine-like stones were arranged like a flower, with the name 'Куртя (Kurtya)' etched into the topmost petal; the other side was etched metal (Kurtya believed it to be gold, but Komrade Sylvestrova insisted that it must have been polished bronze) that contained an inscription, which the Komrade read aloud. "Together in Paris," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "So, you want to go to France to find your family, hmm?" Kurtya nodded enthusiastically, having dreamt about crossing Europe to find people who loved him ever since he'd first read that inscription. The Komrade scoffed in his face. "Kurtya, Kurtya…it's time to take your place in life," she said with frustration, shoving the boy towards the open gate. "In life, and in line. And be grateful too!" she shouted as she wrenched the gate shut behind him.

As Kurtya began to walk away from the gate, he felt something hit him in the back of the head. Turning around, he saw his scarf lying on the ground, realizing that Komrade Sylvestrova had still been holding it after their exchange and that she must have thrown it at him through the gate. Kurtya looked up to see her standing against the bars. "Together in Paris!" she yelled sarcastically, before cackling and turning back to the orphanage. He scowled, picking up the scarf and stuffing it in his pocket, and stormed away.

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><p>Kurtya walked slowly up the path away from the orphanage, trying to ignore the biting chill of the falling snow and icy breeze against his exposed face. As he got further and further away from his former home, he became more and more resentful of the Komrade's words. He resorted to something that had always helped to relieve stress that she had caused him: humorous imitation of his (former) guardian. He slouched his shoulders, morphed his gait into something of a shuffle, coughed a few times, and spoke in a particularly gravelly voice: "Oh, be grateful, Kurtya!" Then, dropping the act, he said to no one in particular "well, you know what, I am grateful." He paused, before shouting "grateful to get away!"<p>

By this time, he'd come to a wooden signpost at a crossroads. The path split into two roads, with one road leading to the Fisherman's Village and the other leading to Leningrad (although below the word 'Leningrad' it was still easy to see where 'St. Petersburg' had been scratched out). Kurtya wandered up to the post, staring at it briefly. "Go left," he grumbled in his best impression of the Komrade's voice. "Well, I know what's to the left. I'll be 'Kurtya the orphan' forever." He looked wistfully down the road that led to Leningrad, and wandered a few steps in that direction. "But if I go right, maybe I could find…" he mused, dragging his necklace out from under his various shirts and staring at the inscription again. "Whoever gave me this necklace _must_ have loved me…"

He then came to the realization of just how far-fetched his current train of thought was. "This is crazy – me, go to _Paris_?" he yelled to the open landscape. He let his head fall forward into his hands, massaging his temples. _Oh, wonderful, now I'm talking to trees._ He wandered back towards the signpost. "Send me a sign," he half-muttered, leaning against the post. "A…hint. Anything!" he said, raising his voice once more. Then, glad that no one was around to witness his apparent insanity, he sank down the signpost, curling into himself and resting his head on his knees.

He looked up with a start when something warm, furry, and very much alive began pawing at his shin.

Kurtya saw – though he couldn't begin to imagine where it had come from – a small dog with curly black fur and shining chocolaty eyes, sitting at his feet. The dog yipped, then darted forward to grab the edge of his scarf in its tiny jaws, tugging it away. "Hey!" he half-yelled, grasping for his out-of-reach scarf. He began laughing as the dog darted further away, again laughing "h-hey!" The dog ran around the signpost and behind Kurtya, before darting forward and barking once more, its tail wagging in the air in invitation as the scarf continued to drag in the snow. "I don't have time to play right now," Kurtya said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the post. "I'm waiting for a sign." Then, muttering, he added "and you're getting your slobber all over my scarf." The dog merely yipped again, running farther away and pulling the scarf with it.

By now, Kurtya was frustrated. He dove forward for the end of the scarf, but the dog jumped away, leaving him to fall face-first into the snow. Grumbling, he got up to his knees and grasped again, managing to grab one end of his scarf.

The dog, of course, saw this as an invitation to tug-of-war, and began yanking the scarf insistently in the other direction.

"Would you just leave me alone?" Kurtya said, exasperated, as the dog continued to tug. "Stop!" he yelled as it began to run in the other direction. "Give me that back!" The dog ran playfully around him, inadvertently tangling the scarf around his legs in the process. As the pup pulled away, the twisted scarf tugged Kurtya forward, causing him to tip into the powdery snow.

He started to get up, dusting the snow off of himself, when he noticed that the dog had now bounded a few paces away and was sitting on the path that led away from the Fisherman's Village. He huffed as the dog yipped happily around the scarf in its mouth. "Oh, great. A _dog_ wants me to go to Leningrad," he said sarcastically. Kurtya sat on the snow surrounding the signpost for a few moments, before looking back at the path. He listened as the dog whimpered, its tail still wagging. It had now dragged his scarf a few metres farther down the city-bound path, and barked at Kurtya in a way he supposed was inviting. _A dog as my sign_, he thought pensively. _It could happen, and it might be the only sign I get_.

"Alright!" he said, getting up and walking toward the joyous, yipping ball of scarf-stealing fur. "I can take a hint," he added, addressing the universe as he gingerly picked the scarf up from where it now laid: in the snow at the feet of the hyperactive dog. As he looked down the road to Leningrad, a sudden fear washed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath and steeling his nerves, before opening them and taking the first tentative step. "Heart, don't fail me now. Courage, don't desert me – don't turn back now that we're here!" he sang softly to himself, his boots crunching in the snow as he trudged forward. "People always say life is full of choices – no one ever mentions fear," he continued, moving to follow the dog that had bounded ahead of him, yelping and growling whenever his progress paused. "Or how the world can seem so vast," he sang, staring out at the seemingly endless whiteness of the snow-covered forest, "on the journey to the past."

A few miles down the road from the signpost, Kurtya encountered a horse-drawn sleigh – or rather, he encountered the snow that was kicked up by its long blades as it passed. He'd been knocked against the snow bank by the force of the spray, and had to dust himself off thoroughly before continuing. (He had to dust himself off again when the dog decided that the best place to shake the snow off of its fur would be well within Kurtya's vicinity.) But, though annoying, the sleigh had done nothing to detract from his will to reach Leningrad, and he began his journey again with renewed vigour. "Somewhere down this road, I know someone's waiting – years of dreams just can't be wrong," he sang, recalling the many times he'd sat in the orphanage, cold and lonely, dreaming of a family he hoped he still had. "Arms will open wide, I'll be safe and wanted finally home where I belong," he sang louder, wrapping his arms around himself. In the 10 years of memory that he did have, he'd never been hugged – such was life in an orphanage. The dog then bounded up to him and began pawing at his leg; reluctantly (though secretly grateful for the contact), he picked it up and held it snugly in his arms. "Well starting now I'm learning fast, on this journey to the past."

Leningrad was nearly a day's journey by foot, and the sun was hovering perhaps two hours above the horizon by the time he stumbled upon a small cottage, its interior lamps already blazing. Kurtya could see that, inside the small structure, a family was stationed by the window, staring down the road towards the city. He stopped across the road from the cottage in order to watch the people within the structure. "Home, love, family: there was once a time I must have had them too," he sang, staring longingly at the small family. He watched as a man approached from the other side of the road – coming back from work in Leningrad, perhaps – and saw the children within the cottage burst through the door in order to greet him. He heard them yell happy greetings as they hugged the man's legs; sighing, he turned away from the domestic scene and continued his journey down the city-bound road. Before he'd rounded the bend away from the cottage, he looked back once more, to see that the entire family had now congregated outside. "Home, love, family," he sang softly, a sharp pang of longing striking his heart as he observed their happiness, "I will never be complete until I find you!" He turned away once more, a distinct sense of emptiness filling his chest. He felt tears pricking his eyes, and wiped them quickly away as he walked.

By the time he reached a sign that said 'Leningrad – 4 km', he was sweaty, sore, and covered in snow. (The dog, of course, was energetic as always, and continued to bounce about and yip as if it had not covered even half the same distance that Kurtya had.) His feet ached inside of the cheap boots he wore. "One step at a time," he sang to himself in encouragement, gritting his teeth as he scrambled, ungracefully, over a fallen log, "one hope, then another, who knows where this road may go?" He thought about the possible journey he would take in making his way across the continent. Yes, he knew that this trip would begin with Leningrad, and end with Paris, but oh! – what marvellous places he might end up at in between! In his remembered life, he had never travelled outside of the orphanage, but now – now he might see much of Europe, by train or boat or maybe automobile. Bolstered by his adventurous thoughts, he continued down the road with renewed vigour. "Back to who I was, on to find my future, things my heart still needs to know!" he sang with enthusiasm, even as he continued to slip along snow-covered (and partially icy) path. It was nearly sunset, and he'd just passed a 'Leningrad – 1 km' sign: he was getting close. "Yes, let this be a sign!" he sang as he leaned down as scooped the dog into his arms. "Let this road be mine! Let it lead me to my past!" he sang joyously, running toward the top of the hill that marked the end of the road, beginning the short descent into Leningrad. When he reached the pinnacle, he paused, catching his breath and staring out over the city: the cathedrals, the factories, the homes, the _life_. Before descending, he took a deep breath, and shouted "and bring me home at last!"

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><p><strong>I love writing Sue, in any iteration. I'm kind of sad that we won't get to see her again, though :( Have fun guessing who the dog (sort of) is - though you'll get a hint once it has a name next chapter.<br>**

**Pretty please leave me reviews?** **They make my day better, they really do.**


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